two strangers learn to fall in love again (2/3)
Title: two strangers learn to fall in love again (2/3)
Rating: NC-17 (for a little making out and third base action)
Starring: Puck, Quinn, other original characters
Pairings: Puck/Quinn
Category/Warning: Future!fic
Word count: ~6600
Author: domfangirl
Summary: A month goes by, and he listens to Quinn's message too many times, wondering what he expects to hear in those seven words that will set him on the right course.
Author’s Notes: This is the follow up to You Make It Hard To Be Faithful. I always tell myself I can write things in a certain word limit, and then that never actually happens. Part One is here, and this is part two, and God willing, there will only be a part three. I'm going out of town for the weekend tomorrow, so I wanted to post what I've got so that the final part doesn't end up being 10K words. (In my defense, Puck and Quinn have a LOT of issues to work out.)
Additional A/N: No beta this time. All run on sentences care of yours truly. *g*
Quinn keeps her focus on the monitor, fighting the urge every five seconds or so to turn her head and look at Puck. Instead, she concentrates on the warmth of his hand in hers, and how his fingers intermittently squeeze hers. Marcie moves the transducer over her belly for only a few moments before she crows, "There you go!"
Quinn can see it as easily as she can the shape of her baby's head. A tiny little penis and scrotum are right there, and she lets a breath go when she realizes she'd been holding it in.
"Boys are never shy," Marcie says. "Always proud to show off their parts."
Puck laughs a little, the sound sort of failing at the end like he too is out of air.
Quinn finally lets herself look at him and she can't help what flies out of her mouth. "Like father, like son." His gaze jumps to hers before he laughs really loudly. (She notices that Lyndon flinches at the sound.)
"Holy shit, Q," he wheezes a second later. In a quick motion, he rubs at his cheeks with the back of his free hand suspiciously, and Quinn's heart clenches.
"Everything looks great," Marcie continues and Quinn turns her attention to the woman. "Healthy, normal size for how many weeks you're along. Looking good, Mamacita."
"Thank you," Quinn says.
"I assume you'd like a copy of this?" Marcie says, using a few tissues to wipe the gel from Quinn's abdomen.
"Yes, ma'am," Puck answers. "Could we get two, actually?" he asks.
Marcie nods and flashes a smile at him before looking back at Quinn. "I'll take care of that while you get dressed. Don't forget," she points over her shoulder, "about the bathroom. You must be bursting right about now."
Quinn agrees, but she's not sure if it's her heart or her bladder that's about to explode.
When she tries to sit up, Puck's hand slides under her back, helping her. For just a short span of time when their eyes meet, she can't think about anything except how perfect this moment is. Of course she's having a boy this time--and it snowballs from there into how he's going to be the best child that ever existed, and how she's going to love him so much, and how his father is going to be so proud of him. Puck hugs her enthusiastically, if a little awkwardly, and the strength of the squeeze he gives her is enough to bring the urgency in her bladder completely to the forefront of her mind.
She gets off the table, and heads towards the toilet. He says, "I'll wait here for you," and she nods and closes the door behind her just as she hears a cell phone ring. She knows it's not hers, as she left it in her purse in the changing room.
As she relieves herself, she takes several moments to breathe deeply. She washes her hands in the small sink next to the toilet, and when her eyes come up in the mirror and she looks at herself, she's grinning again. It's the happiness in that woman's face that strikes her as odd and she feels tears right behind her smile, but she knows they're tears of pure unadulterated joy. Whatever happens between her and Puck, good or bad, she will always be someone's mother, and nothing can ruin that.
A boy. Her little baby boy. To keep, to have, to raise. Hers.
Hers and Puck's.
She opens the door and he's standing there, alone in the room. She looks around questioningly, but before she can ask where Lyndon is, Puck steps forward and says, "He had to take a call."
"Oh," she says, and suddenly she longs for her best friend in a way that disorients her. She's not ready for this, for being alone with Puck, with it all out in the open in broad daylight. That's why she'd retreated the night before, why she had just left him standing in the parking lot in a city he didn't know his way around very well.
She places her hand against the doorjamb to steady herself, and he closes the distance between them. "Alright?" he asks, and his hands reach out to land on her hips.
The smock she's wearing has a few buttons at the top, but it's mostly just a hold-it-closed-yourself outfit, and Quinn hadn't been thinking about it much while she was semi-exposed on the exam table. Now, she's painfully aware that all she has on under it are grandma panties and a bra. "Yeah--yes," she murmurs, looking up at him. He's sober this morning, which she counts as a good thing. He hadn't been drunk the night before (she remembered drunk!Puck all too easily), but she still appreciates the fact that he's completely clear-headed today. "Just...just," she ends up saying because she can't find the words to express herself right now.
"It's a boy," he says, and the smile inching over his face makes her grin in return.
"I know," she says.
He hesitates just a moment--she can literally see the second when he mentally thinks fuck it. His gaze flickers between her mouth and her eyes, and he shakes his head marginally before he leans into her and his hands slip from her hips to the small of her back and she's flush against him when he kisses her.
If she thought the kiss from the night before had been sweet, then she'd obviously never been kissed by him when he was actually trying. (Maybe she had, a really long time ago, but she couldn't recall any of that presently.) His tongue makes lazy forays around and over her bottom lip, dipping into her mouth and retreating teasingly so that her tongue follows his instinctively. He angles his head a little more to the left so that their mouths go wider; Quinn moans because it feels amazing, and she needs to be closer, but she's already pressed against his chest, and she thinks her feet aren't even on the ground anymore. Then she feels his hands under her bottom and the doorjamb behind her and he's curling his tongue around hers and they're back in her mouth now, and oh, god. She mindlessly rubs against him because everything about the kiss is so much like lovemaking that she can only think please, please, please and then she hears someone clearing their throat. Puck pulls away, although very, very reluctantly, and his fingers squeeze her bottom before he carefully lowers her back to the floor.
"Sorry," Lyndon says with an extremely long-suffering sigh from the opposite doorway. "Justine just called to say that there was some kind of typo in our ad that came out in today's PennySaver. Everyone is trying to sign up for the autumn classes at half cost."
He gives Quinn a pointed look as though she is the only one who can solve this problem (which isn't the case), but she takes the rescue for what it is. She's about to lose her head completely over Puck, and despite the desire to rush headlong into madness, she's already done that once this year. She looks at Puck apologetically and says, "I have to get to work."
He nods, looking somewhat forlorn. (Still heavy lidded and turned on, but a little lost too.) "Sure, yeah, of course. I understand."
Quinn reaches for his hand. "How about I call you when I'm free? We can grab a bite to eat--and, you know, talk. Figure this all out."
His fingers skim lightly over the palm of her hand and she has to control the shudder that works its way up her spine. "Sounds like a plan," he says. He smiles slowly then, wolfish and beautiful all at once. As she eases away from him and returns to the changing room, she remembers exactly how and why her 16-year-old self had broken all the important promises she'd made. He had always clouded her mind, said just what she needed to hear in the moment that would make her toss it into the wind. And if that failed, mind-drugging kisses usually followed. She also remembers how often she regretted those things. She buttons her pants over the slight bulge of her tummy and whispers, "Don't let me regret this," to God, or whoever might hear her and help her now.
*
By the time they meet for lunch--at Rigsby's Kitchen--in downtown Columbus, it's nearly 2pm. Puck can imagine the conversation that Quinn and her gay bodyguard must have had (and how long it must have gone on) since he'd caught them making out.
Puck really hadn't planned that, it just happened. He'd looked at her, and thought about their son, and he just couldn't not express himself. It's just that his way of getting his point across was a little less words and a lot more feeling her up than was probably socially acceptable.
Whatever. She totally wanted it, and he doesn't feel bad about it at all. He's only sorry that they got interrupted, though he's beginning to understand that he has to get his urges under control as far as Quinn is concerned, or they might end up arrested for indecent exposure.
As they're seated at their table, he looks around at the surroundings and gets that they're in a relatively pricey place. There's a hamburger on the menu though, so that's all that matters. Quinn can have her vegetarian whatever salad (yeah the girl who'd downed bacon cheeseburgers like crazy in high school had at some point turned in her meat-eating card), and he can have a burger, and they can eat and talk about this thing between them in a place where he can't, you know, start undressing her.
He's sure that's what lunch in a public place is all about.
Quinn smiles as their waitress walks away, and he takes a sip of his water. There are lots of things about her that are different, her diet just being one of them, but the biggest change is the happy expression on her face. She'd always been beautiful, and is only more so now really; the filled-out womanliness making her so soft and touchable looking that he had to continually tell himself to keep his hands to himself.
Not that that had really worked so far.
But public places being what they are, he has a feeling she feels safe here, in this hoity-toity restaurant. "So," he begins, flashing her a big smile. "Did your buddy give you a big don't-get-in-the-sack-with-that-loser speech?"
Quinn's cheeks fill with color, and he wants to pat himself on the back for being so on the mark. She stalls a moment by taking a drink from her own water glass, but then charms him by saying, "Again. Don't get in the sack with that loser again."
"Touché," he says, saluting her by touching two fingers to his forehead.
Quinn giggles and then struggles to show a serious face. "You're not a loser, Puck."
He knows that, but it still kinda makes him want to kiss her for saying it. Not that he didn't want to kiss her before. But, you know. She's Quinn Fabray, and she doesn't think he's a loser.
"Lyndon is just..." she seems to be unsure of what word she wants to use, but he lets her search for a bit. "Protective," is what she finally settles on.
"He's your gay husband." She arches her eyebrow at him, just the way Lyndon had in the doctor's office. "What? It's not a secret is it? He admitted to me that he's gay. And did you see how he was dressed? The scarf was a dead give away. Thought I was having a Kurt Hummel flashback."
Quinn is in mid-drink when he says that and she nearly sprays him with water. While she covers her mouth with a hand and sputters, Puck chuckles and reaches across the table to lift one of her arms over her head. "You okay, baby?"
She pulls away and glares at him a little, coughing until she clears her airway. When she can talk again, she says, "What's really funny is he critiqued your outfit as well."
Puck glances down at his standard issue undershirt, half-unbuttoned button-up flannel, and jeans. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asks, trying to look critically at his clothes.
Quinn laughs again and says, "Well, he seemed to think you were still living in the past--you know, your glory days of jockdom and dating the head Cheerio and all that. He thinks you dress a bit juvenilely."
"Baby, I'm a dude. And I'm straight. I wear whatever's closest to the closet and smells the cleanest."
"I'm not criticizing you," she admonishes. "I just think it's funny that that you mentioned his clothes and he mentioned yours. I actually think you'll end up being good friends."
"The fuck we will." When she looks at him with a hint of disappointment, he adds, his voice slightly quieter, "I mean, if he's telling you not to bang me, he's on my shit list."
Quinn hushes him and leans forward across the table. "Could you not--I don't know be so crass? I mean, there could be people in here whose children I teach ballet to."
"Sorry," he says, and he means it. Generally speaking, he does have a few more manners than he's currently displaying, but he's not gonna be all nicey-nice with Lyndon just to get on Quinn's good side. A cock-blocker is a cock-blocker, doesn't matter how he accomplishes it.
"And, for the record," she continues, "I'm not going to--" she mouths silently sleep with you as she glances around a little, "if..."
He leans forward now, feeling both thwarted and excited.
"...and until we work out a few things."
"Like what?"
"Like what?" she repeats a little sharply. "Puck, we're not just, you know, magically together or whatever, just because we're having a baby."
"But you said you want to be with me!" he says. A lot of his excitement and happiness feels like it's draining away the longer they sit in this restaurant. When he'd gotten back to the hotel the night before, he'd relived their entire conversation and fixated on the parts he'd sort of missed in the moment. The biggest chunk of that had been her confession that she'd gone to New York to get pregnant, but also to see what he was up to because she wanted him.
"Oh, my god," she mutters, dropping her gaze from his face. "Have we gone back in time? Maybe you need a drink so you'll start dealing with reality."
He's instantly pissed, and if it weren't for the waitress returning just then with their food (fastest fucking service, ever, good god), he might have just told her to fuck off. Luckily for him, he's got a minute or two to get a grip on his temper as the waitress asks Quinn if she wants fresh parmesan and pepper on her salad.
He pulls the top bun off his hamburger and slathers some ketchup on the inside of it before replacing it, though suddenly he doesn't feel so hungry. "Look--" he starts when the server leaves.
"Puck, seriously--" Quinn begins at the same time, so they both stop and just look at one another.
"You first," he says.
"No, you--"
"Quinn. Please. Just say whatever it is. Because as usual, with you from one day to the next, I'm never going to know if I'm coming or going. Either you want to be with me, or you don't, and I just need to know upfront what the hell's going on here."
She picks up her fork but doesn't put any food on it. He sees sadness, the image that had always come to mind whenever he'd thought of her over the years, and the realization that he put that expression on her face does something very painful to his chest.
She looks down, examining the fork in her hand (he wouldn't be surprised if she was considering stabbing him with it), but then she says in a soft voice, "If this could work out between us--I think that would make me very happy. But having sex in New York one time, and you coming here and going to the ultrasound with me doesn't make us a family. It takes more than that. You do understand that, right?"
A lump forms in his throat, so he just nods. He gets it, he really does. He's 27 years old. He's not the stupid, idealistic kid who thought stealing a little money here or there, or books on pregnancy meant he was a better man than his own father who had left and never looked back. He understands now that being there is as much emotional effort as it is physical. Even if he hadn't gotten it before, that final conversation with Maria as he was packing up his shit brought it home even more. You've been gone for months she'd said. You came home every day, but you've been somewhere else this whole time. Where did you go, Puck?
"Everything we do now, we have to do it thinking of him," Quinn continues, her hand resting on the top portion of her belly. "He's the whole point, Puck. I want you, yes, but he needs me, and that's going to be the way I run this thing. If it's good for him, if it makes sense for him, if it makes his life better. Okay?"
He nods again, and busies himself with taking a bite of his sandwich. Chewing slowly, he watches her as she digs into her meal, her eyes moving away from his to concentrate on what she's doing. "So," he says after he's swallowed. "What's the first thing we need to do?"
She glances up at him and says, "Well, we need to not have sex. Because we were always good at that part, and not so much at the other stuff. So we need to hold off on that."
He thinks fuck. He says, "Shit."
She stares at him with no expression.
"Fine," he spits. "I guess that won't be such a big fucking deal if I'm in New York and you're here anyway. It's not like you'll be able to move right away."
"What?" she asks, her passive expression changing so fast it nearly makes him laugh out loud. "I'm not moving to New York!" she states emphatically.
"I'm not moving to Columbus," he mutters, looking around the restaurant with ill-concealed disgust. "Who the fuck wants to live in Columbus?"
"I have a business here, you jerk! I live here. My life is here. I've lived here for almost eight years."
"So, I've lived in New York for almost eight years. Why do I have to move and you don't? I'm already giving up sex!"
"Oh, for god's sake!" She throws her napkin down on the table and scoots her chair back. "You won't have to give up sex forever, you ass! And I can't believe, that for one insane second, I actually thought I wanted this."
She surprises the hell out of him by standing up and walking out. She just leaves him sitting there with their hardly touched food and it takes him almost a full minute to realize she's really left, she's not doing it for dramatic effect. (See, high school Quinn would totally have done that. This woman? Well, he thinks she means serious business.)
He digs money out of his wallet and tosses it on the table as quickly as he can and then he chases her out to the parking lot. She's already got the car in reverse, and he plants himself behind it, smacking his hands down loudly on the trunk. If she runs him over, that will solve a few problems for both of them, and he grimly realizes he's not even halfway joking.
When she puts the car in park (he sees her do it through the back window), he slowly walks around to the driver's side door. Jerking it opening, he stands there looking down at her, but she refuses to acknowledge him. Then he reaches in and wraps his hand around her upper arm and effortlessly pulls her out. Even five months pregnant, she can't be more than a 130 pounds. He tugs her against him, moving them both slightly to the right so she's between him and the car.
She sighs, a little trembly sound and he realizes she's crying, so he chucks a fist under her chin to tip her face up to his. "Don't do this, Q. Don't run away just because I'm not the easiest guy in the world to deal with."
She swipes at a cheek with one hand. "You're impossible," she sniffles.
"And yet, here we are."
She shakes her head and breaks eye contact, and the only thing that fills his mind is a thought he's had a million times about her in all the years he's known her. She's almost too pretty to be real.
"If you just wanted some guy who'd roll over and play dead, don't you think you'd be married by now? Don't you think someone other than...Lyndon would be warning me off with if you hurt her... threats? Would you really have come all the way to New York just to get my baby if there wasn't something bigger going on here?"
She still doesn't look at him, but he can see a smile fighting its way on to her lips.
"I haven't had anything to drink, and I'm trying to be less douchey, and more honest. Can you tell?" he asks, cupping her face in his hand to make her look at him again.
She finally allows him to tip her head up and she says, "You called him by his name. You wanted to call him something mean, but you just said his name."
He rolls his eyes. "Do we have to talk about your gay husband?"
Leaning forward, Quinn puts her head against his shoulder and snakes her arms around his waist. "No," she murmurs. "We don't have to talk about him." He hugs her in return, pulling her tightly into his arms. He likes this, just being close to her, and feeling the curve of her belly against him. But it's not enough. He wants to tip her head back and kiss her mouth and then slowly remove every piece of clothing she has on to see every bit of skin and every body part that's bigger and plumper because he knocked her up.
There is something incredibly arousing about knowing that he did it to her, that it's his fault she looks like that. He didn't feel that way in high school; then it had been embarrassing and awkward, and doing the right thing had been a lot more about earnest speeches than it had been about honest actions.
He rubs his hand down her back, slowly, back and forth, up and down and she arches into him, a little whimper escaping her throat. He starts to get hard (so sue him) but then he realizes she's not turned on. It's like he hit a tender spot on her back. He remembers one of his fire buddy's wives always complaining about how her back hurt when she was pregnant, so he continues to rub at the lower portion. "You sore, baby?" he asks.
She makes a sound in her throat that he supposes is affirmative, but all it does is make his blood pressure go up and he knows she can feel what she's doing to him because she moves just right, and the friction makes him choke back a groan.
He pushes her back and and drops his mouth down to her ear. "You sure about this no sex thing?"
She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, her mouth open and soft and so inviting, he thinks he might just come in his jeans right there. But then she pulls away and whispers, "I'm trying to be smart about this."
"Fuck this shit," he growls, pushing her (gently) back into the driver's seat. "I need a minute," he says.
The smile on her face is reminiscent of a girl he once knew. She looks pleased with herself, but then she reaches out and squeezes his hand with hers. "I'm sorry. I won't purposely tease you."
He slants her an irritated glance as he moves to shut her car door. "You don't have to do much."
She laughs softly and says, "Why don't you follow me to my house? We still have things to talk about, and at least if we fight there, we won't have an audience."
He nods. "Okay. But, seriously, Fabray. You know I can wear you down."
"I'm not a teenager anymore, Puckerman. I have a bit more self-control than that."
She pulls the car door closed, and he walks gingerly to his truck that's parked a few slots over. With everything else that seems to be new about her, he is actually very disappointed to realize that he believes her, one hundred percent.
*
It's about a fifteen minute drive from the restaurant to her small home. She'd bought it just the year before as a tax write-off. Owning your own business could really screw you when it came to taxes, so her accountant had suggested she buy a house. The market in Ohio, as always, wasn't amazing, but she had a cute little three bedroom that would house a little boy quite easily.
She'd never imagined a big boy in it, though, and as Puck follows her, his truck looming in her rearview mirror, she hopes she has the ability to resist him.
Lyndon had cornered her in her office back at the studio and berated her for quite a while about her weakness when it came to Noah Puckerman. He hadn't said anything she didn't already know, but the best part had been after she had agreed with all his points when he'd given her a sympathetic look. "He really is beautiful though, isn't he? Those old pictures you showed me don't do him justice."
The fact that Lyndon's automatic distrust and dislike of Puck could be preempted for even a small moment by Puck's obvious appeal had made her laugh for about five minutes straight. Lyndon had told her to shut up and be serious, but she'd just kissed his cheek and said, "I know what I'm doing."
It's almost true.
Puck parks his truck next to her car on her driveway, and she has a flash of domesticity that sort of steals her breath. Is this really happening? Are they talking about being together? Having a life, raising a child, existing in each other's lives in a positive way?
More importantly, can they actually do it?
She's really not sure at all.
"This is nice," he says, observing her small yard as he walks around her car to look at the flowerbed that decorates the small strip of lawn at the front by the sidewalk. "You've got a nice little place here."
"Thank you," she says. He walks over to her and takes her hand in his and motions for her to lead them inside.
She gives him a quick tour of the house, glad that it's mostly clean. It's not hard to keep it up with just her living there, but she also had a cleaning service that came in once a month to do the stuff she didn't have time for. She doesn't tell him that, though. She can imagine the jokes about having a maid, and she doesn't want to hear it.
"Do you like being a fireman?" she asks, inviting him into the kitchen so she can fix herself something to eat. She's starving, and even though her storm out at the restaurant had been necessary, she is a pregnant woman who has to eat, or crazy things will happen. She doesn't need to expose Puck to some of her more illogical moments at present, and she tended to get very grumpy when she hadn't eaten.
He looks a little surprised by her question, but answers quickly. "Yeah, I love it. It's badass, you know, but in a way that helps people. It's a good fit for me."
"Have you ever...you know, ever, almost--" she finds it hard to say been hurt or almost died because her throat sort of seizes up at the idea.
"No." He helps her take some leaf lettuce and other vegetables out of the crisper so she can make a salad. "We have loads of safety measures and protocol to prevent injury. I got burned one time, a beam fell on me." He tugs his pant leg up to show her the backside of his lower right leg, and she has a vague recollection of seeing the scar the night they spent together in New York. She'd wondered about it then, but hadn't asked him. "But that was during a drill, not even on the job. And I'm real careful."
"You want some?" she asks and he nods, so she cuts up enough cucumber and tomato for both of them and then gestures for him to grab one of the avocados from the bowl on the kitchen table. "That's good to hear," she says. "When do you have to be back to work?" she asks.
"I need to head back tomorrow," he says. He leans against the counter and watches her while she cuts up the avocado quickly and cleanly. "You know it's a nine hour drive from NYC to here?"
She tosses the cut avo into the bowl with the other ingredients and glances at him. "I wasn't sure how long a drive it is, but I knew it had to be long. Why didn't you just fly?"
"I had a few days of comp time, and I just had a wild hare, you know. Jumped in the truck and drove. I wasn't sure, you know, how this would go, so I didn't plan to stay too long."
"A wild hare?" she questions. "When did you call my parents?"
"I called them Monday night, and then I got up yesterday morning, early, and just put my foot on the floor."
Since he had brought it up, she asks, "Why did you come here? Was it just to stake your claim as the father?"
She moves to the table, setting the bowl of salad on it. Then she turns and grabs a couple of plates from the cupboard for them as well as a pair of forks. He doesn't speak until they're sitting down. "I wanted the baby, yeah. I mean, come on. But I was pissed. I've been pissed this whole time, but I've also been trying to figure it out, and get my shit straight so that when I saw you, I'd know how to handle it. I didn't think you'd--well, you surprised me by saying that you wanted to be with me. That's not what I expected from a chick who said when she broke up with me that she wouldn't wish me on her worst enemy."
Quinn takes a bite of her salad and watches him while he pokes at it, carefully scooping portions onto his plate without any avocado. She avoids the shameful feeling at the reminder of the horrible things she'd said to him by asking, "Why didn't you just tell me you don't like avocado?" she asks.
He looks up with a guilty flush. "I do like it, just mashed up on tortilla chips. I'm not big on it in my salad."
"Tell the truth, do you ever eat salad?"
He smirks at her. "Yes, I eat vegetables. Not as many as you, probably, but I eat pretty healthy. I've got to, to stay in good shape. It's not just about exercise, the food's important too."
Quinn chews thoughtfully, watching him with undisguised interest. He starts to get uncomfortable, and she watches him revert back to Player!Puck right in front of her eyes. "Like what you see, right?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
She gives it right back. "I've never had a problem looking at you; that was always the easy part."
He glowers a bit and goes back to scooping up salad (but still avoiding the avo). He says nothing as he starts eating.
"So, you want to spend the day with me?" she asks. "You're leaving in the morning, I presume?"
"I want to spend the day, and the night with you," he answers.
"Puck..."
"We don't have to have sex. Unless you want to. I mean, I'm totally open. Whatever."
He smirks again, and Quinn is torn between punching his arm and kissing his face. She figures she never quit loving him, and even though he infuriates her on many levels, he was right when he said what he did in the restaurant parking lot.
If she'd wanted someone that rolled over and played dead, she would have settled a long time ago.
What she wants is a second chance to right a lot of wrongs. Her purposeful pregnancy is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
"You'd settle for cuddling all night, if that's what I want?" she asks.
"As long as you'll let me have a steak or something, because seriously, woman, this salad ain't gonna cut it."
She laughs, and then she punches his arm. When he mock pouts, his lips curving downward in a silly way that causes her laughter to escalate, she leans over the table. They realize at the same moment that his child's presence won't allow her to get close enough, so he narrows the distance himself and their lips meet in a soft, sweet kiss.
"You can have steak," she murmurs. She kisses him again just because she wants to.
*
Puck wakes up because she climbs out the bed. He misses her instantly, but something nudges his subconscious that she's just going to the bathroom and she'll be back. He rolls over on to his back and reaches for his cell phone on the bedside table. Looking at the clock he sees that it's not even 7am yet. He figures he might be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before he hits the road, and he needs it. They'd stayed up fairly late talking about all kinds of things after they'd gone grocery shopping and he got some Tri-tip to broil in her oven. She had not been lured by the delicious smell, and he'd become convinced that he could try to seduce her, but nothing would work. The woman had principles now about some weird shit, and none of his sweet talk (or sweet cooking) could entice her.
He keeps his eyes shut so she'll think he's still asleep when she pads back into the room. They'd slept fully clothed ("As a precaution," Quinn had suggested), and he was a little uncomfortable because jeans were not meant to be on your body for 24 straight hours. It's not like he owned pajamas, though (again, he's a straight dude), so it was either sleep naked or sleep in the clothes he had on, and Quinn's vote won. (He's on top of the covers too, because it's too hot to sleep in all his clothes, and under blankets.)
Now, she climbs back in beside him and sidles up to him, her arm going across his stomach. He quivers a little beneath her, only because his shirt has ridden up a bit and his navel got a dusting of her fingers and palm. Her nose presses under the edge of his jaw and her breath caresses his neck and that's all it takes for his morning wood to spring up enthusiastically.
The truth is he hasn't sex in several months, hadn't really even been interested (in Maria, or anyone else). So not only does he want Quinn, just for the sake of her being hotter than hell, and you know, carrying his kid and all. He wants Quinn because he needs to get off, and his emotions are involved, which just makes it worse, and he's extremely frustrated with everything.
But he's also remarkably happy, and thinks that even though they've had their moments the last two days, he hasn't felt this way--deeply satisfied in his bones--in like, well, ever.
He takes a deep breath, and then lets it go slowly as though breathing is as good as an orgasm. If he can just do it right, he can get through it.
Then her lips move down his neck and her hand skates back across his stomach, and he swears her fingers dip beneath the waistband of his now way-too-tight jeans. He groans, and her name leaves his throat on a jagged breath. "You promised no teasing," he reminds her.
"I'm not teasing," she says against his ear, and then he swells to larger proportions as her fingers tug down his zipper.
"The fuck?" he croaks out. His hand automatically circles her wrist to keep her from sticking her hand inside his pants. (But, oh, god, does he want her to stick her hand in his pants.) "Quinn, don't," he says, and it sounds so much like begging that he turns his head towards hers and tries to capture her mouth with his.
Her lips press against his cheek, and she nudges his head back with her own, preventing their mouths from meeting. "Just let me make you feel good," she whispers, and he totally loses all ability to speak as her fingers slip inside the front of his boxer briefs.
Her hand is warm, though not nearly as warm as his body is. He feels like heat must be lifting off him in waves and when the palm of her hand slips under the head of his cock, his hips jerk, lifting right off the bed. She pulls him out of his underwear, gently maneuvering him out into the open. He can't help but look down and see her fingers wrapped around his shaft, and he nearly blows from the visual alone.
It absolutely embarrasses him how little it takes (so he squeezes his eyes shut), and how quickly he's arching into her palm, and how few strokes she actually gives him. When he comes, he shouts her name too loudly, and his arm clamps her body against his side.
Panting heavily, he waits a few moments before he reaches to feel the damage his jizz must have done to his pants (the only ones he brought with him--his other clothes are back at the motel) but he feels movement other than his own down there. He cracks an eye open to see a small hand towel draped strategically over his thighs. He hadn't noticed it before when all he could see was her sweet little fingers wrapped around his cock. She quickly folds it up now and tosses it aside and then cuddles up to him again.
"You did that on purpose," he finally says when he can make words again.
She laughs, an airy little echo in his ear. "I sure hope so."
When he starts to ask why, she presses a finger to his lips, and he can smell himself on her hand. "Just be grateful," she admonishes. "I wanted to give you something I knew you'd like. Go back to sleep," she whispers.
She kisses his jaw again, and settles against him. He wants to roll over on her and give her back some of that, but he's also extremely sleepy, so he just goes with it.
He's pretty sure if he ever stopped loving Quinn Fabray, he can't remember how or when it happened.
PART THREE
Rating: NC-17 (for a little making out and third base action)
Starring: Puck, Quinn, other original characters
Pairings: Puck/Quinn
Category/Warning: Future!fic
Word count: ~6600
Author: domfangirl
Summary: A month goes by, and he listens to Quinn's message too many times, wondering what he expects to hear in those seven words that will set him on the right course.
Author’s Notes: This is the follow up to You Make It Hard To Be Faithful. I always tell myself I can write things in a certain word limit, and then that never actually happens. Part One is here, and this is part two, and God willing, there will only be a part three. I'm going out of town for the weekend tomorrow, so I wanted to post what I've got so that the final part doesn't end up being 10K words. (In my defense, Puck and Quinn have a LOT of issues to work out.)
Additional A/N: No beta this time. All run on sentences care of yours truly. *g*
Quinn keeps her focus on the monitor, fighting the urge every five seconds or so to turn her head and look at Puck. Instead, she concentrates on the warmth of his hand in hers, and how his fingers intermittently squeeze hers. Marcie moves the transducer over her belly for only a few moments before she crows, "There you go!"
Quinn can see it as easily as she can the shape of her baby's head. A tiny little penis and scrotum are right there, and she lets a breath go when she realizes she'd been holding it in.
"Boys are never shy," Marcie says. "Always proud to show off their parts."
Puck laughs a little, the sound sort of failing at the end like he too is out of air.
Quinn finally lets herself look at him and she can't help what flies out of her mouth. "Like father, like son." His gaze jumps to hers before he laughs really loudly. (She notices that Lyndon flinches at the sound.)
"Holy shit, Q," he wheezes a second later. In a quick motion, he rubs at his cheeks with the back of his free hand suspiciously, and Quinn's heart clenches.
"Everything looks great," Marcie continues and Quinn turns her attention to the woman. "Healthy, normal size for how many weeks you're along. Looking good, Mamacita."
"Thank you," Quinn says.
"I assume you'd like a copy of this?" Marcie says, using a few tissues to wipe the gel from Quinn's abdomen.
"Yes, ma'am," Puck answers. "Could we get two, actually?" he asks.
Marcie nods and flashes a smile at him before looking back at Quinn. "I'll take care of that while you get dressed. Don't forget," she points over her shoulder, "about the bathroom. You must be bursting right about now."
Quinn agrees, but she's not sure if it's her heart or her bladder that's about to explode.
When she tries to sit up, Puck's hand slides under her back, helping her. For just a short span of time when their eyes meet, she can't think about anything except how perfect this moment is. Of course she's having a boy this time--and it snowballs from there into how he's going to be the best child that ever existed, and how she's going to love him so much, and how his father is going to be so proud of him. Puck hugs her enthusiastically, if a little awkwardly, and the strength of the squeeze he gives her is enough to bring the urgency in her bladder completely to the forefront of her mind.
She gets off the table, and heads towards the toilet. He says, "I'll wait here for you," and she nods and closes the door behind her just as she hears a cell phone ring. She knows it's not hers, as she left it in her purse in the changing room.
As she relieves herself, she takes several moments to breathe deeply. She washes her hands in the small sink next to the toilet, and when her eyes come up in the mirror and she looks at herself, she's grinning again. It's the happiness in that woman's face that strikes her as odd and she feels tears right behind her smile, but she knows they're tears of pure unadulterated joy. Whatever happens between her and Puck, good or bad, she will always be someone's mother, and nothing can ruin that.
A boy. Her little baby boy. To keep, to have, to raise. Hers.
Hers and Puck's.
She opens the door and he's standing there, alone in the room. She looks around questioningly, but before she can ask where Lyndon is, Puck steps forward and says, "He had to take a call."
"Oh," she says, and suddenly she longs for her best friend in a way that disorients her. She's not ready for this, for being alone with Puck, with it all out in the open in broad daylight. That's why she'd retreated the night before, why she had just left him standing in the parking lot in a city he didn't know his way around very well.
She places her hand against the doorjamb to steady herself, and he closes the distance between them. "Alright?" he asks, and his hands reach out to land on her hips.
The smock she's wearing has a few buttons at the top, but it's mostly just a hold-it-closed-yourself outfit, and Quinn hadn't been thinking about it much while she was semi-exposed on the exam table. Now, she's painfully aware that all she has on under it are grandma panties and a bra. "Yeah--yes," she murmurs, looking up at him. He's sober this morning, which she counts as a good thing. He hadn't been drunk the night before (she remembered drunk!Puck all too easily), but she still appreciates the fact that he's completely clear-headed today. "Just...just," she ends up saying because she can't find the words to express herself right now.
"It's a boy," he says, and the smile inching over his face makes her grin in return.
"I know," she says.
He hesitates just a moment--she can literally see the second when he mentally thinks fuck it. His gaze flickers between her mouth and her eyes, and he shakes his head marginally before he leans into her and his hands slip from her hips to the small of her back and she's flush against him when he kisses her.
If she thought the kiss from the night before had been sweet, then she'd obviously never been kissed by him when he was actually trying. (Maybe she had, a really long time ago, but she couldn't recall any of that presently.) His tongue makes lazy forays around and over her bottom lip, dipping into her mouth and retreating teasingly so that her tongue follows his instinctively. He angles his head a little more to the left so that their mouths go wider; Quinn moans because it feels amazing, and she needs to be closer, but she's already pressed against his chest, and she thinks her feet aren't even on the ground anymore. Then she feels his hands under her bottom and the doorjamb behind her and he's curling his tongue around hers and they're back in her mouth now, and oh, god. She mindlessly rubs against him because everything about the kiss is so much like lovemaking that she can only think please, please, please and then she hears someone clearing their throat. Puck pulls away, although very, very reluctantly, and his fingers squeeze her bottom before he carefully lowers her back to the floor.
"Sorry," Lyndon says with an extremely long-suffering sigh from the opposite doorway. "Justine just called to say that there was some kind of typo in our ad that came out in today's PennySaver. Everyone is trying to sign up for the autumn classes at half cost."
He gives Quinn a pointed look as though she is the only one who can solve this problem (which isn't the case), but she takes the rescue for what it is. She's about to lose her head completely over Puck, and despite the desire to rush headlong into madness, she's already done that once this year. She looks at Puck apologetically and says, "I have to get to work."
He nods, looking somewhat forlorn. (Still heavy lidded and turned on, but a little lost too.) "Sure, yeah, of course. I understand."
Quinn reaches for his hand. "How about I call you when I'm free? We can grab a bite to eat--and, you know, talk. Figure this all out."
His fingers skim lightly over the palm of her hand and she has to control the shudder that works its way up her spine. "Sounds like a plan," he says. He smiles slowly then, wolfish and beautiful all at once. As she eases away from him and returns to the changing room, she remembers exactly how and why her 16-year-old self had broken all the important promises she'd made. He had always clouded her mind, said just what she needed to hear in the moment that would make her toss it into the wind. And if that failed, mind-drugging kisses usually followed. She also remembers how often she regretted those things. She buttons her pants over the slight bulge of her tummy and whispers, "Don't let me regret this," to God, or whoever might hear her and help her now.
*
By the time they meet for lunch--at Rigsby's Kitchen--in downtown Columbus, it's nearly 2pm. Puck can imagine the conversation that Quinn and her gay bodyguard must have had (and how long it must have gone on) since he'd caught them making out.
Puck really hadn't planned that, it just happened. He'd looked at her, and thought about their son, and he just couldn't not express himself. It's just that his way of getting his point across was a little less words and a lot more feeling her up than was probably socially acceptable.
Whatever. She totally wanted it, and he doesn't feel bad about it at all. He's only sorry that they got interrupted, though he's beginning to understand that he has to get his urges under control as far as Quinn is concerned, or they might end up arrested for indecent exposure.
As they're seated at their table, he looks around at the surroundings and gets that they're in a relatively pricey place. There's a hamburger on the menu though, so that's all that matters. Quinn can have her vegetarian whatever salad (yeah the girl who'd downed bacon cheeseburgers like crazy in high school had at some point turned in her meat-eating card), and he can have a burger, and they can eat and talk about this thing between them in a place where he can't, you know, start undressing her.
He's sure that's what lunch in a public place is all about.
Quinn smiles as their waitress walks away, and he takes a sip of his water. There are lots of things about her that are different, her diet just being one of them, but the biggest change is the happy expression on her face. She'd always been beautiful, and is only more so now really; the filled-out womanliness making her so soft and touchable looking that he had to continually tell himself to keep his hands to himself.
Not that that had really worked so far.
But public places being what they are, he has a feeling she feels safe here, in this hoity-toity restaurant. "So," he begins, flashing her a big smile. "Did your buddy give you a big don't-get-in-the-sack-with-that-loser speech?"
Quinn's cheeks fill with color, and he wants to pat himself on the back for being so on the mark. She stalls a moment by taking a drink from her own water glass, but then charms him by saying, "Again. Don't get in the sack with that loser again."
"Touché," he says, saluting her by touching two fingers to his forehead.
Quinn giggles and then struggles to show a serious face. "You're not a loser, Puck."
He knows that, but it still kinda makes him want to kiss her for saying it. Not that he didn't want to kiss her before. But, you know. She's Quinn Fabray, and she doesn't think he's a loser.
"Lyndon is just..." she seems to be unsure of what word she wants to use, but he lets her search for a bit. "Protective," is what she finally settles on.
"He's your gay husband." She arches her eyebrow at him, just the way Lyndon had in the doctor's office. "What? It's not a secret is it? He admitted to me that he's gay. And did you see how he was dressed? The scarf was a dead give away. Thought I was having a Kurt Hummel flashback."
Quinn is in mid-drink when he says that and she nearly sprays him with water. While she covers her mouth with a hand and sputters, Puck chuckles and reaches across the table to lift one of her arms over her head. "You okay, baby?"
She pulls away and glares at him a little, coughing until she clears her airway. When she can talk again, she says, "What's really funny is he critiqued your outfit as well."
Puck glances down at his standard issue undershirt, half-unbuttoned button-up flannel, and jeans. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asks, trying to look critically at his clothes.
Quinn laughs again and says, "Well, he seemed to think you were still living in the past--you know, your glory days of jockdom and dating the head Cheerio and all that. He thinks you dress a bit juvenilely."
"Baby, I'm a dude. And I'm straight. I wear whatever's closest to the closet and smells the cleanest."
"I'm not criticizing you," she admonishes. "I just think it's funny that that you mentioned his clothes and he mentioned yours. I actually think you'll end up being good friends."
"The fuck we will." When she looks at him with a hint of disappointment, he adds, his voice slightly quieter, "I mean, if he's telling you not to bang me, he's on my shit list."
Quinn hushes him and leans forward across the table. "Could you not--I don't know be so crass? I mean, there could be people in here whose children I teach ballet to."
"Sorry," he says, and he means it. Generally speaking, he does have a few more manners than he's currently displaying, but he's not gonna be all nicey-nice with Lyndon just to get on Quinn's good side. A cock-blocker is a cock-blocker, doesn't matter how he accomplishes it.
"And, for the record," she continues, "I'm not going to--" she mouths silently sleep with you as she glances around a little, "if..."
He leans forward now, feeling both thwarted and excited.
"...and until we work out a few things."
"Like what?"
"Like what?" she repeats a little sharply. "Puck, we're not just, you know, magically together or whatever, just because we're having a baby."
"But you said you want to be with me!" he says. A lot of his excitement and happiness feels like it's draining away the longer they sit in this restaurant. When he'd gotten back to the hotel the night before, he'd relived their entire conversation and fixated on the parts he'd sort of missed in the moment. The biggest chunk of that had been her confession that she'd gone to New York to get pregnant, but also to see what he was up to because she wanted him.
"Oh, my god," she mutters, dropping her gaze from his face. "Have we gone back in time? Maybe you need a drink so you'll start dealing with reality."
He's instantly pissed, and if it weren't for the waitress returning just then with their food (fastest fucking service, ever, good god), he might have just told her to fuck off. Luckily for him, he's got a minute or two to get a grip on his temper as the waitress asks Quinn if she wants fresh parmesan and pepper on her salad.
He pulls the top bun off his hamburger and slathers some ketchup on the inside of it before replacing it, though suddenly he doesn't feel so hungry. "Look--" he starts when the server leaves.
"Puck, seriously--" Quinn begins at the same time, so they both stop and just look at one another.
"You first," he says.
"No, you--"
"Quinn. Please. Just say whatever it is. Because as usual, with you from one day to the next, I'm never going to know if I'm coming or going. Either you want to be with me, or you don't, and I just need to know upfront what the hell's going on here."
She picks up her fork but doesn't put any food on it. He sees sadness, the image that had always come to mind whenever he'd thought of her over the years, and the realization that he put that expression on her face does something very painful to his chest.
She looks down, examining the fork in her hand (he wouldn't be surprised if she was considering stabbing him with it), but then she says in a soft voice, "If this could work out between us--I think that would make me very happy. But having sex in New York one time, and you coming here and going to the ultrasound with me doesn't make us a family. It takes more than that. You do understand that, right?"
A lump forms in his throat, so he just nods. He gets it, he really does. He's 27 years old. He's not the stupid, idealistic kid who thought stealing a little money here or there, or books on pregnancy meant he was a better man than his own father who had left and never looked back. He understands now that being there is as much emotional effort as it is physical. Even if he hadn't gotten it before, that final conversation with Maria as he was packing up his shit brought it home even more. You've been gone for months she'd said. You came home every day, but you've been somewhere else this whole time. Where did you go, Puck?
"Everything we do now, we have to do it thinking of him," Quinn continues, her hand resting on the top portion of her belly. "He's the whole point, Puck. I want you, yes, but he needs me, and that's going to be the way I run this thing. If it's good for him, if it makes sense for him, if it makes his life better. Okay?"
He nods again, and busies himself with taking a bite of his sandwich. Chewing slowly, he watches her as she digs into her meal, her eyes moving away from his to concentrate on what she's doing. "So," he says after he's swallowed. "What's the first thing we need to do?"
She glances up at him and says, "Well, we need to not have sex. Because we were always good at that part, and not so much at the other stuff. So we need to hold off on that."
He thinks fuck. He says, "Shit."
She stares at him with no expression.
"Fine," he spits. "I guess that won't be such a big fucking deal if I'm in New York and you're here anyway. It's not like you'll be able to move right away."
"What?" she asks, her passive expression changing so fast it nearly makes him laugh out loud. "I'm not moving to New York!" she states emphatically.
"I'm not moving to Columbus," he mutters, looking around the restaurant with ill-concealed disgust. "Who the fuck wants to live in Columbus?"
"I have a business here, you jerk! I live here. My life is here. I've lived here for almost eight years."
"So, I've lived in New York for almost eight years. Why do I have to move and you don't? I'm already giving up sex!"
"Oh, for god's sake!" She throws her napkin down on the table and scoots her chair back. "You won't have to give up sex forever, you ass! And I can't believe, that for one insane second, I actually thought I wanted this."
She surprises the hell out of him by standing up and walking out. She just leaves him sitting there with their hardly touched food and it takes him almost a full minute to realize she's really left, she's not doing it for dramatic effect. (See, high school Quinn would totally have done that. This woman? Well, he thinks she means serious business.)
He digs money out of his wallet and tosses it on the table as quickly as he can and then he chases her out to the parking lot. She's already got the car in reverse, and he plants himself behind it, smacking his hands down loudly on the trunk. If she runs him over, that will solve a few problems for both of them, and he grimly realizes he's not even halfway joking.
When she puts the car in park (he sees her do it through the back window), he slowly walks around to the driver's side door. Jerking it opening, he stands there looking down at her, but she refuses to acknowledge him. Then he reaches in and wraps his hand around her upper arm and effortlessly pulls her out. Even five months pregnant, she can't be more than a 130 pounds. He tugs her against him, moving them both slightly to the right so she's between him and the car.
She sighs, a little trembly sound and he realizes she's crying, so he chucks a fist under her chin to tip her face up to his. "Don't do this, Q. Don't run away just because I'm not the easiest guy in the world to deal with."
She swipes at a cheek with one hand. "You're impossible," she sniffles.
"And yet, here we are."
She shakes her head and breaks eye contact, and the only thing that fills his mind is a thought he's had a million times about her in all the years he's known her. She's almost too pretty to be real.
"If you just wanted some guy who'd roll over and play dead, don't you think you'd be married by now? Don't you think someone other than...Lyndon would be warning me off with if you hurt her... threats? Would you really have come all the way to New York just to get my baby if there wasn't something bigger going on here?"
She still doesn't look at him, but he can see a smile fighting its way on to her lips.
"I haven't had anything to drink, and I'm trying to be less douchey, and more honest. Can you tell?" he asks, cupping her face in his hand to make her look at him again.
She finally allows him to tip her head up and she says, "You called him by his name. You wanted to call him something mean, but you just said his name."
He rolls his eyes. "Do we have to talk about your gay husband?"
Leaning forward, Quinn puts her head against his shoulder and snakes her arms around his waist. "No," she murmurs. "We don't have to talk about him." He hugs her in return, pulling her tightly into his arms. He likes this, just being close to her, and feeling the curve of her belly against him. But it's not enough. He wants to tip her head back and kiss her mouth and then slowly remove every piece of clothing she has on to see every bit of skin and every body part that's bigger and plumper because he knocked her up.
There is something incredibly arousing about knowing that he did it to her, that it's his fault she looks like that. He didn't feel that way in high school; then it had been embarrassing and awkward, and doing the right thing had been a lot more about earnest speeches than it had been about honest actions.
He rubs his hand down her back, slowly, back and forth, up and down and she arches into him, a little whimper escaping her throat. He starts to get hard (so sue him) but then he realizes she's not turned on. It's like he hit a tender spot on her back. He remembers one of his fire buddy's wives always complaining about how her back hurt when she was pregnant, so he continues to rub at the lower portion. "You sore, baby?" he asks.
She makes a sound in her throat that he supposes is affirmative, but all it does is make his blood pressure go up and he knows she can feel what she's doing to him because she moves just right, and the friction makes him choke back a groan.
He pushes her back and and drops his mouth down to her ear. "You sure about this no sex thing?"
She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, her mouth open and soft and so inviting, he thinks he might just come in his jeans right there. But then she pulls away and whispers, "I'm trying to be smart about this."
"Fuck this shit," he growls, pushing her (gently) back into the driver's seat. "I need a minute," he says.
The smile on her face is reminiscent of a girl he once knew. She looks pleased with herself, but then she reaches out and squeezes his hand with hers. "I'm sorry. I won't purposely tease you."
He slants her an irritated glance as he moves to shut her car door. "You don't have to do much."
She laughs softly and says, "Why don't you follow me to my house? We still have things to talk about, and at least if we fight there, we won't have an audience."
He nods. "Okay. But, seriously, Fabray. You know I can wear you down."
"I'm not a teenager anymore, Puckerman. I have a bit more self-control than that."
She pulls the car door closed, and he walks gingerly to his truck that's parked a few slots over. With everything else that seems to be new about her, he is actually very disappointed to realize that he believes her, one hundred percent.
*
It's about a fifteen minute drive from the restaurant to her small home. She'd bought it just the year before as a tax write-off. Owning your own business could really screw you when it came to taxes, so her accountant had suggested she buy a house. The market in Ohio, as always, wasn't amazing, but she had a cute little three bedroom that would house a little boy quite easily.
She'd never imagined a big boy in it, though, and as Puck follows her, his truck looming in her rearview mirror, she hopes she has the ability to resist him.
Lyndon had cornered her in her office back at the studio and berated her for quite a while about her weakness when it came to Noah Puckerman. He hadn't said anything she didn't already know, but the best part had been after she had agreed with all his points when he'd given her a sympathetic look. "He really is beautiful though, isn't he? Those old pictures you showed me don't do him justice."
The fact that Lyndon's automatic distrust and dislike of Puck could be preempted for even a small moment by Puck's obvious appeal had made her laugh for about five minutes straight. Lyndon had told her to shut up and be serious, but she'd just kissed his cheek and said, "I know what I'm doing."
It's almost true.
Puck parks his truck next to her car on her driveway, and she has a flash of domesticity that sort of steals her breath. Is this really happening? Are they talking about being together? Having a life, raising a child, existing in each other's lives in a positive way?
More importantly, can they actually do it?
She's really not sure at all.
"This is nice," he says, observing her small yard as he walks around her car to look at the flowerbed that decorates the small strip of lawn at the front by the sidewalk. "You've got a nice little place here."
"Thank you," she says. He walks over to her and takes her hand in his and motions for her to lead them inside.
She gives him a quick tour of the house, glad that it's mostly clean. It's not hard to keep it up with just her living there, but she also had a cleaning service that came in once a month to do the stuff she didn't have time for. She doesn't tell him that, though. She can imagine the jokes about having a maid, and she doesn't want to hear it.
"Do you like being a fireman?" she asks, inviting him into the kitchen so she can fix herself something to eat. She's starving, and even though her storm out at the restaurant had been necessary, she is a pregnant woman who has to eat, or crazy things will happen. She doesn't need to expose Puck to some of her more illogical moments at present, and she tended to get very grumpy when she hadn't eaten.
He looks a little surprised by her question, but answers quickly. "Yeah, I love it. It's badass, you know, but in a way that helps people. It's a good fit for me."
"Have you ever...you know, ever, almost--" she finds it hard to say been hurt or almost died because her throat sort of seizes up at the idea.
"No." He helps her take some leaf lettuce and other vegetables out of the crisper so she can make a salad. "We have loads of safety measures and protocol to prevent injury. I got burned one time, a beam fell on me." He tugs his pant leg up to show her the backside of his lower right leg, and she has a vague recollection of seeing the scar the night they spent together in New York. She'd wondered about it then, but hadn't asked him. "But that was during a drill, not even on the job. And I'm real careful."
"You want some?" she asks and he nods, so she cuts up enough cucumber and tomato for both of them and then gestures for him to grab one of the avocados from the bowl on the kitchen table. "That's good to hear," she says. "When do you have to be back to work?" she asks.
"I need to head back tomorrow," he says. He leans against the counter and watches her while she cuts up the avocado quickly and cleanly. "You know it's a nine hour drive from NYC to here?"
She tosses the cut avo into the bowl with the other ingredients and glances at him. "I wasn't sure how long a drive it is, but I knew it had to be long. Why didn't you just fly?"
"I had a few days of comp time, and I just had a wild hare, you know. Jumped in the truck and drove. I wasn't sure, you know, how this would go, so I didn't plan to stay too long."
"A wild hare?" she questions. "When did you call my parents?"
"I called them Monday night, and then I got up yesterday morning, early, and just put my foot on the floor."
Since he had brought it up, she asks, "Why did you come here? Was it just to stake your claim as the father?"
She moves to the table, setting the bowl of salad on it. Then she turns and grabs a couple of plates from the cupboard for them as well as a pair of forks. He doesn't speak until they're sitting down. "I wanted the baby, yeah. I mean, come on. But I was pissed. I've been pissed this whole time, but I've also been trying to figure it out, and get my shit straight so that when I saw you, I'd know how to handle it. I didn't think you'd--well, you surprised me by saying that you wanted to be with me. That's not what I expected from a chick who said when she broke up with me that she wouldn't wish me on her worst enemy."
Quinn takes a bite of her salad and watches him while he pokes at it, carefully scooping portions onto his plate without any avocado. She avoids the shameful feeling at the reminder of the horrible things she'd said to him by asking, "Why didn't you just tell me you don't like avocado?" she asks.
He looks up with a guilty flush. "I do like it, just mashed up on tortilla chips. I'm not big on it in my salad."
"Tell the truth, do you ever eat salad?"
He smirks at her. "Yes, I eat vegetables. Not as many as you, probably, but I eat pretty healthy. I've got to, to stay in good shape. It's not just about exercise, the food's important too."
Quinn chews thoughtfully, watching him with undisguised interest. He starts to get uncomfortable, and she watches him revert back to Player!Puck right in front of her eyes. "Like what you see, right?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
She gives it right back. "I've never had a problem looking at you; that was always the easy part."
He glowers a bit and goes back to scooping up salad (but still avoiding the avo). He says nothing as he starts eating.
"So, you want to spend the day with me?" she asks. "You're leaving in the morning, I presume?"
"I want to spend the day, and the night with you," he answers.
"Puck..."
"We don't have to have sex. Unless you want to. I mean, I'm totally open. Whatever."
He smirks again, and Quinn is torn between punching his arm and kissing his face. She figures she never quit loving him, and even though he infuriates her on many levels, he was right when he said what he did in the restaurant parking lot.
If she'd wanted someone that rolled over and played dead, she would have settled a long time ago.
What she wants is a second chance to right a lot of wrongs. Her purposeful pregnancy is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
"You'd settle for cuddling all night, if that's what I want?" she asks.
"As long as you'll let me have a steak or something, because seriously, woman, this salad ain't gonna cut it."
She laughs, and then she punches his arm. When he mock pouts, his lips curving downward in a silly way that causes her laughter to escalate, she leans over the table. They realize at the same moment that his child's presence won't allow her to get close enough, so he narrows the distance himself and their lips meet in a soft, sweet kiss.
"You can have steak," she murmurs. She kisses him again just because she wants to.
*
Puck wakes up because she climbs out the bed. He misses her instantly, but something nudges his subconscious that she's just going to the bathroom and she'll be back. He rolls over on to his back and reaches for his cell phone on the bedside table. Looking at the clock he sees that it's not even 7am yet. He figures he might be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before he hits the road, and he needs it. They'd stayed up fairly late talking about all kinds of things after they'd gone grocery shopping and he got some Tri-tip to broil in her oven. She had not been lured by the delicious smell, and he'd become convinced that he could try to seduce her, but nothing would work. The woman had principles now about some weird shit, and none of his sweet talk (or sweet cooking) could entice her.
He keeps his eyes shut so she'll think he's still asleep when she pads back into the room. They'd slept fully clothed ("As a precaution," Quinn had suggested), and he was a little uncomfortable because jeans were not meant to be on your body for 24 straight hours. It's not like he owned pajamas, though (again, he's a straight dude), so it was either sleep naked or sleep in the clothes he had on, and Quinn's vote won. (He's on top of the covers too, because it's too hot to sleep in all his clothes, and under blankets.)
Now, she climbs back in beside him and sidles up to him, her arm going across his stomach. He quivers a little beneath her, only because his shirt has ridden up a bit and his navel got a dusting of her fingers and palm. Her nose presses under the edge of his jaw and her breath caresses his neck and that's all it takes for his morning wood to spring up enthusiastically.
The truth is he hasn't sex in several months, hadn't really even been interested (in Maria, or anyone else). So not only does he want Quinn, just for the sake of her being hotter than hell, and you know, carrying his kid and all. He wants Quinn because he needs to get off, and his emotions are involved, which just makes it worse, and he's extremely frustrated with everything.
But he's also remarkably happy, and thinks that even though they've had their moments the last two days, he hasn't felt this way--deeply satisfied in his bones--in like, well, ever.
He takes a deep breath, and then lets it go slowly as though breathing is as good as an orgasm. If he can just do it right, he can get through it.
Then her lips move down his neck and her hand skates back across his stomach, and he swears her fingers dip beneath the waistband of his now way-too-tight jeans. He groans, and her name leaves his throat on a jagged breath. "You promised no teasing," he reminds her.
"I'm not teasing," she says against his ear, and then he swells to larger proportions as her fingers tug down his zipper.
"The fuck?" he croaks out. His hand automatically circles her wrist to keep her from sticking her hand inside his pants. (But, oh, god, does he want her to stick her hand in his pants.) "Quinn, don't," he says, and it sounds so much like begging that he turns his head towards hers and tries to capture her mouth with his.
Her lips press against his cheek, and she nudges his head back with her own, preventing their mouths from meeting. "Just let me make you feel good," she whispers, and he totally loses all ability to speak as her fingers slip inside the front of his boxer briefs.
Her hand is warm, though not nearly as warm as his body is. He feels like heat must be lifting off him in waves and when the palm of her hand slips under the head of his cock, his hips jerk, lifting right off the bed. She pulls him out of his underwear, gently maneuvering him out into the open. He can't help but look down and see her fingers wrapped around his shaft, and he nearly blows from the visual alone.
It absolutely embarrasses him how little it takes (so he squeezes his eyes shut), and how quickly he's arching into her palm, and how few strokes she actually gives him. When he comes, he shouts her name too loudly, and his arm clamps her body against his side.
Panting heavily, he waits a few moments before he reaches to feel the damage his jizz must have done to his pants (the only ones he brought with him--his other clothes are back at the motel) but he feels movement other than his own down there. He cracks an eye open to see a small hand towel draped strategically over his thighs. He hadn't noticed it before when all he could see was her sweet little fingers wrapped around his cock. She quickly folds it up now and tosses it aside and then cuddles up to him again.
"You did that on purpose," he finally says when he can make words again.
She laughs, an airy little echo in his ear. "I sure hope so."
When he starts to ask why, she presses a finger to his lips, and he can smell himself on her hand. "Just be grateful," she admonishes. "I wanted to give you something I knew you'd like. Go back to sleep," she whispers.
She kisses his jaw again, and settles against him. He wants to roll over on her and give her back some of that, but he's also extremely sleepy, so he just goes with it.
He's pretty sure if he ever stopped loving Quinn Fabray, he can't remember how or when it happened.
PART THREE